


pressure's gonna drop

by fyborg23



Series: brass in pocket [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Hate Sex, M/M, Rough Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crosby has murder on his lips, and Giroux’s fingers itch with the urge to force Crosby’s head down, to make Crosby slide those sneering lips across his dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pressure's gonna drop

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of _the harder they come_ , and takes place in an AU of the 1973-1974 season. Sidney Crosby and Claude Giroux are the coaches of their respective teams, with Shea Weber being the Blues' no. 1 defenseman. Events besides the actual dates and game outcomes have no relation whatsoever to historical reality.
> 
> "People usually get what's coming to them— unless it has been mailed" would be a good description of the events therein. **Warnings for: 1970s attitudes, unsafe sex, implied drug use, gendered insults**
> 
> My thanks to ayal for enabling, prodding and poking me through this story!  
> Title taken from The Clash's Pressure Drop.

_ 27 October 1973 _

The Igloo smells of acrid smoke and skunky beer. The ice’s covered with his boys raising their sticks like middle fingers, and Giroux strokes down his paisley tie as he looks over at Crosby.

Giroux smirks at the scoreboard reading 0-6 in a glum white. Even the annoying bastard right behind the glass who’s been trying to moon Giroux the entire game has shut up.

Crosby has murder on his lips, and Giroux’s fingers itch with the urge to force Crosby’s head down, to make Crosby slide those sneering lips across his dick. Crosby looks away, anger high on his cheeks as he watches the Pens waddle towards the tunnel.

Giroux finds Crosby sulking against the door to the men’s restroom like some sort of teen delinquent, pulling on a cigarette like it’s his lifeline. Giroux smooths a hand over his combover and presses a leg in between those thick thighs of Crosby’s.

”Those are bad for you,” Giroux sneers. 

Crosby scowls, stubs out the half-burnt cigarette against the cinder block wall and drops the butt to the floor. Giroux presses Crosby’s hand against the wall and grinds his wrist bones together. 

Crosby pushes his hips up against Giroux, and Giroux pushes back, smirking at how soft Crosby’s gotten around the waist. Crosby’s cheeks flush bright, and Giroux drags his lips over Crosby’s fat ones in a parody of a kiss.

Crosby shoves his hand through Giroux’s hair, and Giroux cringes at the prickles that runs across his scalp.

Crosby, the fucker, sneers, “Thinning a little, aren’t you,  _ Claude _ .” Giroux wants to shove his name out of Crosby’s lips, make him splatter it against the wall in his blood.

Giroux presses down, says, “Fat bastard like you—” shoves his hand underneath Sid’s too-tight waistcoat and runs his nails beneath his navel, “You should know about thinness, eh?”

Crosby’s face flushes and he moves his hips, slams Giroux into the opposite wall. Crosby has the weight advantage, and the fly of his pants is digging into Giroux’s hip, and Giroux is determined to fucking  _ win _ this just like he won the fucking game. Crosby presses the knot of Giroux’s tie against his throat, smirks, “How many muu-muus died for your tie,” and  _ yanks  _ on it. Giroux tries to gulp, scrambles his hands over the damn tie, but Crosby’s a fucking bitch with that grip.

"Don’t, Giroux," Crosby says, and fuck, Giroux can feel how hard it’s making Crosby to try and strangle Giroux with his own tie. Giroux’s blood is on fire, and Crosby shoves his clammy hand into Giroux’s pants. He smirks at Giroux when he finds that Giroux’s hard enough to cut diamonds.

Fuck him, he’s just a hand to fuck, and Giroux presses into Crosby’s hands, “You going to play patty-cake, pansy?” Crosby’s eyes are dark, and Giroux licks at his own lips, baring his teeth when Crosby curls a hand around his cock.

Crosby yanks on Giroux’s tie, says, “You know, this is really handy—” and Giroux bites at his flapping mouth to shut him up. Crosby presses back, nails just on his dick and teeth on his mouth, and shit, Giroux can taste blood. His own.

Giroux arches off the wall, but Crosby slams his hips back to the cinder blocks, and Giroux spits his reddened saliva on Crosby’s shirt. The red shows up really nice on the powder blue, and Giroux drinks in the clench of Crosby’s jaw. Crosby presses Giroux’s dick back, slides in a finger around his foreskin and Giroux can barely hold back a wince. 

Crosby,  _ for once _ , does what Giroux wanted in the first place. Crosby slides to his knees heavily, and sucks Giroux down.

Crosby’s hair is falling out of his normal slick-backed pose, and Giroux yanks at it, making Crosby shout muffledly against his dick. Crosby takes him in deep, the whore, and Giroux fucking loves seeing his lips slide against his dick, covering it in spit. Crosby’s nose presses against Giroux’s pelvis, and that makes his dick jump a little.

Crosby doesn’t look up, thank christ, and Giroux holds Crosby’s head still as he comes into his mouth. Crosby’s mouth is loose around him, and Giroux smirks as Crosby wipes off the small drops of come at the corner of his fish lips. 

Giroux doesn’t smirk when Crosby smears his hand across Giroux’s tie. 

Crosby licks his lips, presses Giroux against the wall and says, “You know how to make someone feel real special, Frenchie.” Crosby’s still hard, and the thought of him still being hard through Giroux fucking his face?

Makes Giroux twitch, reach out for Crosby, but Crosby gives him a hard, flat smile and he walks away.

 

_ # _

 

_ 15 November 1973 _

 

Crosby curls his lips, watching a naked drunken man attempt to streak across the ice. It's cold inside the Barn.  _ Very cold _ , Sid thinks viciously as he crosses his arms, watching the man fumble across the red line and bits of him flop around. The benders of the St. Louis Police barely wrestles him down.

Shriveled balls and dicks aside, Crosby has a more pressing problem: The Blues are leading by one despite being a walking too many men penalty. The largest Blue— and he is massive, his head's the size of a trash can— smirks across at Crosby. Crosby narrows his eyes and says, "Get the fuck away from this bench, Weber."

Weber smirks through his massive beard, "No rule saying I can't visit in between streakers."

Crosby yanks down on his tie. One of the Blues hollers, "Hey, Butter, quit kissing fuckface and get your ass to the blueline."

"Gotta kick your boys' asses," Weber says, skating backward with a wink.

Crosby tamps down on the spike of heat that surges up in his throat and forces his eyes down the graph sheet, covered in pencil and water spots. Crosby's going to have a hell of a time convincing his boys to try to block whatever shots this Weber takes, or even to take those hits.

_ Hockey should have a size limit _ , Crosby thinks darkly as the clock counts down the last ten seconds in white underneath the scoreboard, which has the Blues leading by two over the Pens. Fuck Weber, fuck his bully tactics.

Crosby's pissed when the boys file out in their street clothes, looking like a pack of kicked dogs. Instead of getting on the team bus with those pissants, Crosby makes himself walk. He kicks hard at a loose beer can, exploding the pull tab off it, and lights up a cigarette. He looks down at the uneven asphalt, sloppily placed over the "historic cobblestones". He takes a deep drag, smothers himself in the dry smoke.

And then the heavens piss on Crosby.

Hard.

Crosby looks up and shoves his sodded hair back as he trudges towards the Cheshire Hotel. His cigarettes probably are fucked but so is he.

And bad things come in threes, don't they. Crosby grimly braces himself for bad thing number three, vaguely hoping that no one tries to mug him.

Bad thing number three, as it turns out, pulls up in an Oldsmobile Toronado, and it splashes Crosby with brown water as it eases to a shuddering stop. The driver's window cranks down, and there's Weber, beard and all.

Crosby glares at him, and Weber smiles, showing a eyetooth that's been chipped off. "Don't walk around Forest Park this time of night, Coach Crosby, don't want people to get the  _ wrong  _ idea."

At the word 'wrong' Crosby's stomach clenches hard, because— 

Crosby spins his head around, and yeah, that small squat restroom has to be a  _ tea room _ . He strains his ears, listening for a smothered moan. It doesn't come. He looks back at Weber, who's half leaning out the driver's window, smirking at him. Weber's hair is too long, curling across the top of his yellow shirt collar, and Weber's teeth almost matches his shirt.

"We both have reps to keep, Coach," Weber says. The car locks click open, and he adds, "Don't be dumb."

Crosby looks back at the stone shack, then back to Weber and his metal monstrosity. He steps down from the high curb, splashes his way around to the passenger side and slides in across the velor bench.

Weber pats his knee and smiles, "You're smart, Coach," puts his car in gear, and boats away from the curb.

"The Cheshire, right," Weber doesn't ask. Crosby nods and clenches the door handle tightly. He would rather throw himself out of this car than make any conversation.

Weber picks up on that and doesn't say anything else, just drums his fingers to some imaginary beat.

The Cheshire appears not soon enough, and Crosby hisses, "Just drop me off at the side, I can walk in."

Weber fixes his dark hard eyes on Crosby, and jerks the car around, crams it into a slightly too-small parking spot. Crosby pries open his door and slides out. Weber does too. Crosby looks up at him irritably, and Weber smirks.

Crosby's getting a crick in his neck that's not going to go away until they get out of the West.

"You knew what I was talking about, Coach."

Crosby battles the rush of red to his cheeks, tries, "I was born at night, not last night,  _ Weber _ . Quit calling me coach, I'm not your coach."

Weber smiles, mean and slow and it makes Crosby shivers like he's been sticked in the ribs. Weber looks down at him, reaches across to push his thumb against Crosby's mouth. Crosby bites it, but Weber doesn't yank it away.

No. The squatch son of a bitch just drags it over Crosby's teeth, leans in and says, "I bet you've sucked a lot of cock, it would be a crime if you didn't, with those lips."

Crosby narrows his eyes, says, "You talk big, you walk big, are you making up for a tiny dick,  _ Butter _ ?"

Weber rakes his hair back,  _ try me then _ , and Crosby yanks him to the door, up the stairs and to his room.

"Honeymoon suite, eh?" Weber waves a hand towards the stupid circular bed in the center of the room, basking in blood-red light, and Crosby slams the door close.

Crosby jerks off his suit, a mess of wet navy faux-serge, and says, "Not a fucking word."

Weber pops off his clothes, his large hands moving over the buttons, and jesus christ on a cracker, Weber's as hairy as his face claims. Weber's already hard, his dick swaying just so. Crosby looks him up and down, and Weber  _ flexes _ .

Crosby's seized by a new spike of irritation, and shoves a tin vaseline at Weber, says, "You aren't as dumb as you look, are you?"

Weber tears the top open and Crosby watches Weber generously slick himself with it before he lies face down on the rounded mattress. The satin sheets are greasy against his face, and Crosby snarls, "Fuck me."

Weber shoves his hand— fuck, if it isn't the hand with the vaseline— into Crosby's hair, purrs, "All charm," but he pushes in against Crosby's ass. Crosby clutches futilely at the sheets, slipping on them,  _ fuck _ , Weber's big. It burns, makes Crosby grit his teeth and scrunch his eyes closed.

It takes an eternity for Weber to press himself fully in, and Crosby's nothing but an overloaded fuse, angry and static. Weber presses his hands down on Crosby's shoulder blades, thrusts in hard, and holy hell, Weber's  _ mean _ .

None of them say anything, the room's quiet except for their breathing and the slap of skin on skin, and Weber scrapes Crosby raw, makes Crosby clench down on him as he comes with his teeth against his forearm.

Crosby's orgasm makes Weber even more wild, and Weber rakes his nails down Crosby's back, the rough edges making him bleed. Weber slumps against Crosby with a grunt when he comes.

Weber's heavy, and Crosby elbows him off. Weber looks up at Crosby, his hair even more of a mess and his eyes almost liquid. Crosby narrows his eyes and says, "Not bad. Get out."

Weber doesn't bother to collect himself, just shoves himself back into his clothes and walks out with heavy footsteps. The door slams closed.

Crosby clenches, bites his tongue at the dull twinges, and stretches out on the dirty sheets. He reaches over for his cigarettes like a man needing oxygen.

He smokes through three of them in less than ten minutes, thinking harder than he should about the way Weber's chest hair brushed against his back, about how Weber is going to leave him sore for a  _ week. _

 

#

_ 20 January 1974 _

Giroux smacks Van Impe's head, snarls, "You're supposed to pound the body, what were you thinking, floating around like a giant turd. And you! Schultz! Where was that hustle? Did the chickenheads feed you lead?"

The locker room's uncomfortable and smoky. Trust the Pens to snap a five-game winning streak. What burns Giroux even more is that the Pens are currently  _ below _ .500, and yet they managed to fart two more goals than the Flyers did.

Giroux looks around the room, looking for the familiar lumps of six-packs, and drags out four. Four six-packs that he could just see just fine from this end of the room. Giroux yanks a can out, pulls the tab open, and pours it straight down on the floor.

And another. And another, until all 24 cans are empty and there's a beer pond on the beat-up concrete.

Giroux looks around the room. Says, "No drinking until you win a actual game, boys."

He stalks out, slamming the door against the increasing rumbles of the boys— never take booze away from a hockey player— and mentally makes a note to tell the equipment guys to look for white powder.

Giroux steels himself for the sight of Crosby. He's going to be insufferable, despite his team drowning in shit up to their eyeballs.

True to form, Crosby's leaning against the wall smirking at Giroux, tie loosened around his neck and the ends of the tie accentuating the strains of the buttons on his shirt. Giroux smirks, and Crosby pushes off the wall, waves a hand around at the quotes painted on it, "Your boys dumb enough to believe this shit?"

Giroux reaches and tugs Crosby's hair sharply, making his neck arch, says, "Whatever it takes," and drags his teeth across the Adam's apple of it.

Crosby looks from lowered eyes, squeezes Giroux's arm and smirks, "I'd rather take  _ you _ ."

The sneer of Crosby's fat lips makes Giroux want to slap it off— so he does. The sharp sound is loud in the hallway, and it doesn't even work, just makes Crosby lift the corners of his mouth against the red mark on his cheek.

Giroux scrubs his palms against his pants, and Crosby pushes him against the opposite side of the hall, says in his ear, "You want to be a bitch, then you'll get fucked like one," and rudely gropes Giroux's dick through his orange-and-black checkered pants. Giroux involuntary arches into Crosby's rough hands, and Crosby tugs at Giroux's earlobe with his teeth.

Giroux jerks away, his ear stinging and his face warming, and snarls, "Get it up, if you can with the fat you have around your dick."

Crosby doesn't answer, just turns on his heels and walks towards the exit. Giroux refuses to follow right on Crosby's overlarge ass, makes himself wait at least five minutes before he tears out of the Spectrum and catches Crosby sitting on the hood of his car— his car!— smoking easily. Crosby's fingers curls around the narrow cigarette, and Giroux  _ itches _ all over.

Crosby stubs his smoke out on the hood— his car!— and Giroux says, "You're a fucking cunt."

Crosby licks his red, red lips and palms the tent in his light blue pants, "Pretty sure I don't have one of those."

Giroux yanks open the door and says, "You gonna preen like the cock you wish you were?" Crosby opens the car door on the opposite side and slides in. Giroux narrows his eyes, gets in the car, and jerks Crosby closer to himself by the front of his shirt.

Crosby winds his hands in Giroux's hair, says, "You should lay off the pornos, they rot your brain."

Giroux shoves Crosby's hands away from his head and grimaces, unbuckling his belt and shimmying out of his pants. Crosby's dark eyes flicker over Giroux's dick before he slides a hand down and strokes him once, meanly. "If you're good,  _ Claude _ , maybe you can come," Crosby says.

_ Criss _ , Giroux hates it even more when Crosby doesn't butcher his name, like it even fucking belongs in his mouth. He wants to grip Crosby by the chin, squeeze out his name from between that fish mouth. Instead Giroux grips Crosby's dick through his pants, "You must charm all the ladies."

Crosby slaps Giroux's hand away, jerks his dick out. Giroux's eyes flicker down, and Crosby curls his hand around his dick, jerks it once, slowly. Giroux can see how red Crosby's dick is, just like his damn lips, and Giroux leans back against the car door.

Crosby gets closer, the tip of his tongue darting out from between his lips, and presses his fingertips in against Giroux's asshole. Giroux refuses to squirm, even though he can feel his back plastered in sweat and polyester. It's nearly warm in the car, despite it being January.

A light pole flickers dark, throwing both of them in shadows. They can't see each other, but Giroux can  _ feel _ Crosby smirk. Crosby rakes his nails up Giroux's thighs, scrapes the skin on them almost raw.

"I'm not a bitch,  _ Sidney _ ," Giroux says, doesn't even have to flail around in the dark before he touches the pomaded hair and curl the greasy hair around his fingers. Crosby doesn't make a sound, even though Giroux knows his eyes must be watering. Giroux scoots closer to Crosby, and Giroux buries a sound behind his arm as Crosby sucks a mean bite in his thigh, like a goddamned tick.

Crosby presses Giroux's dick back, his nails pressing just  _ right _ on the overhot skin. Crosby's breath is warm as he says, "I could rut against your asshole and make you want me to slide it in, split you apart."

The words put a small shiver up Giroux's spine that he can't conceal, and Crosby stretches out against his front, pinning him against the window. Crosby slides his dick against Giroux's, and Crosby bites Giroux's lip brutally.

The wetness and the sting makes Giroux arch up against Crosby, and Crosby presses down harder, using every pound he has against Giroux. Crosby rolls his hips firmly, grinding against Giroux's dick, and fuck if it doesn't make Giroux twitch out more precome.

Giroux feels dirty, the slide of their dicks almost too much. Crosby spreads Giroux's ass with rough hands, and his dick just slides against Giroux's cleft. It's all Giroux can do not to squirm, and he inhales sharply when Crosby squeezes his ass together, making Giroux feel how thick and hard Crosby is.

They rut against each other, and Giroux has to clamp a hand over Crosby's obscene mouth to make him shut up about how sweet Giroux's ass is against his cock. Giroux grinds down, ignoring the teeth against his palm, the slick insinuation of Crosby's tongue. Crosby presses a fingertip against Giroux's asshole, the dryness of it scraping across the skin, and Giroux feels fucked any which way.

Crosby leans in, sucks at the web in between Giroux's thumb and pointer finger, and even in the dark, Giroux can make out the dark curls of those fucking eyelashes. Crosby's belly is soft, sliding against Giroux's dick even as he presses his finger into Giroux's asshole. The contrast between the softness of that belly, the burn of that finger, the slickness of that dick is just too much, and Giroux presses his feet against the seats and comes all over himself.

Giroux can feel Crosby smirking, fuck him, and snarls, "You're such a gentleman."

Crosby doesn't say anything, just presses his finger in deeper, and Giroux can't suppress an  _ ahh _ . Giroux knows Crosby can just press his dick in, open him up like he  _ deserves _ it, but Crosby doesn't, just keeps screwing him over and over with those fingers. They burn, and Giroux clenches his teeth at the stretch, but he's not going to blink.

Crosby brushes his lips against Giroux's, says, "You pussy"— or possibly "your pussy", but Giroux's too pissed off at him just screwing around.

"Like you know anything, you keep  _ losing _ ," Giroux says, pressing down on those fingers and ignoring the sense of  _ wrong _ , just to feel Crosby stroke Giroux's spent dick meanly.

Crosby makes a noise that could be called chuckling, and pulls his fingers out, pulling at the rim before he taps them hard against Giroux's asshole, "You're the one who keeps falling on these fingers."

Red flashes across Giroux's vision, and Crosby yanks Giroux down and kneels over his face. Giroux glares up into the darkest spot, where he thinks fuckface's face is, and sucks hard at Crosby's dick. If it hurts, Crosby doesn't let on. He just slides his dick in, fucking Giroux's face like he wants to strangle him with his cock, and Giroux has to take the sick slide of it.

Crosby comes hard down his throat, his thighs shaking, and Giroux slaps them. Crosby gives up a smothered  _ fuck _ and spurts some more come into Giroux's mouth before he collapses backward.

Giroux slides back, scrubs his hand over his mouth, the taste of come thick on his tongue. Crosby presses his dick back into his pants, zips up, and pats Giroux's face, "Sweet as always,  _ petite chou _ ."

Crosby slides out of the car before Giroux can even work up a resort.

Giroux closes his eyes and visualizes smothering that fucking smirk with his dick.

Fuckface.

 

#

 

_ 23 January 1974 _

Crosby walks out of the visitor's locker room, a rare smile on his face. This season has been crap, but beating the Blues gives him joy.

Which sours just a little when Crosby finds Weber huddled underneath the canopy of the Igloo's side entrance, smoking and wearing one of those fringe jackets. The thin leather strips move with each twitch of Weber's large arms, and Crosby curls his lips.

Weber jerks his head in Crosby's direction, and gives him a slow smile. It might even be genuine. Weber puts out his cigarette on the sole of his boots and looks at Crosby expectedly. Crosby swallows around the dryness in his throat, and manages, "Back for more,  _ Butter _ ?"

Weber straightens up, looks down from his fucking unfair vantage point, and says, "Why not."

Crosby's dick twitches in his pants, despite his instincts screaming  _ do not trust him _ . Crosby looks him up and down, and presses a hand against the partially unbuttoned shirt Weber's wearing, his fingers brushing against Weber's chest hair. Weber licks his lips, tongue pink against them, and his eyes heat Crosby right through.

"Fuck," mutters Crosby, and Weber leans against his hand. He looks at Crosby likes he wants to  _ kiss  _ him, and— no.

Crosby jerks his hand away, mutters, "Motel 8. You know where it is."

Crosby has to make himself turn away from Weber's smile.

The motel room has the musty smell of waterlogged carpet, and Crosby looks at a large brown splotch on the wall in quiet dismay. He yanks off his tie and unbuttons his shirt, kicks off his shoes and lies on the bed. Crosby idly reaches for his smokes, lights up one, and exhales smoke towards the ceiling, thinking about Weber's tongue.

Weber comes in, closes the door firmly behind him, and grins when he sees Crosby lying on the bed. Weber strips off his suit, and Crosby watches him greedily as he shows his rough skin, and the flex of his arms as he throws his clothes hastily over the cheap chair management's kindly provided. Weber jerks his head up, and meets Crosby's eyes.

Whatever's on Crosby's face, Weber really likes, because he kneels on the edge of the mattress, sliding his hand down Crosby's torso and resting just so on his stomach. Crosby flicks his eyes down to the wet spot on Weber's briefs. He presses his thumb against the wet spot, rubs it over Weber's dick, and Weber bites his lower lip.

Crosby strokes Weber, and smirks, "Blow me."

Two red spots appear on Weber's face, and Crosby can hear Weber inhale sharply before he unbuckles Crosby's pants and scoots down between his legs. Weber's fingers open up Crosby's pants easily, and his beard scrapes his thighs as Weber presses his mouth against the front of his underwear. Crosby rakes his hand through Weber's tangled hair, and Weber makes a strangled noise.

Crosby arches his hips, presses Weber's face closer to his hard-on, says, "Suck."

Weber's face feels hot against Crosby's skin, and Weber pushes down Crosby's briefs and mouths at the tip of his dick. Weber looks up from lowered eyelashes, and Crosby wants to make him cry,  _ fuck _ . Crosby pushes his dick further into Weber's mouth, and it looks obscene against that beard.

Crosby spreads his legs a little further, and Weber pushes his hands up underneath Crosby's undone shirt, hot on his skin. Crosby throws back his head and clenches his teeth, he's going to hell, this is too good. Weber flicks his tongue slowly over Crosby's dickhead, and pinches his nipple when Crosby arches against the wetness.

Weber hums, and Crosby blindly reaches down, pulls at Weber's hair, and Crosby can hear him make a strangled noise and push himself just a little further, panting and sweating. Weber presses a rough hand against his balls, and that's it, Crosby's coming, shaking—

The motel door opens with a  _ pop,  _ and fuck if it isn't—

Weber pulls back. Crosby opens his eyes and turns toward the door, Giroux more than darkening the doorway, cold air curling around him.

Weber stares at Giroux, and Giroux flickers his eyes over the tableau. Smirks.

Crosby's guts clenches, and he fights the urge to cover himself. Giroux closes the door from behind him and starts, "Quite the set up, Crosby."

Weber jerks his head towards Crosby, looking for a cue, any cue. Crosby flickers his eyes across Weber's face, and slowly shakes his head. Still keeping his eyes on Weber's face, which has small drops of come on it, Crosby says, "Get the fuck out, Giroux."

Crosby can feel Giroux leering at both of them before he slams the door closed.

Weber tears his eyes away from Crosby's, looks at the door with intense hatred, and scrubs at his beard. He mutters, "Fuck me."

"That can be arranged," Crosby smirks, fighting against the cold feeling in his stomach, the wheels in his heads spinning as fast as they can.

Weber glares, his teeth gritted and points angrily at the door, "How do you know he isn't going to  _ blab  _ about how we're fags?"

A slow smile spreads across Crosby's lips. It's actually genuine, no  _ might  _ about it. He licks his lips, says, "Giroux's going to have to explain why he came here at—" he examines the radio's clock dial— "two-thirty in the morning in the first place. Especially for me."

Weber's eyebrows twitch, and he says slowly, "You and Giroux don't get on. But— you mean you have—" Weber breaks off; he can't bring himself to say it, disgust in his mouth. Crosby almost sympathizes.

Crosby doesn't have to say it. Weber's smart for an overgrown d-man who breaks his sticks every other shift. Weber laughs, it's a soft breathy thing, almost child-like, and shakes his head.

"You have way more balls than brains, Coach."

Crosby folds his arms and shrugs with his body. Weber stretches out over him, pressing his arms against the thin pillows, and leans in close enough to brush lips against Crosby's mouth, "You would've been a hell of a player."

Crosby scoffs. Nova Scotia was a long way from  _ here _ . Weber wraps his hands tighter, and kisses him slow.

Crosby closes his eyes and kisses back.

 

#

 

_ 7 February 1974 _

Giroux thumps Clarke on the back approvingly as the boys file out of the locker room. Too close, thinner than a hair on Nixon's head, but the Flyers won in the Spectrum five to four. Giroux's in a reasonably good mood. He pats his plaid jacket for his cigar case and draws one out.

Giroux's got the cigar lit, biting the end satisfiedly by the time he comes out. Crosby's there, under the too-short awning for the service entrance, as usual, with that piss-sour look on his face.

Giroux takes a deep drag, blows smoke in Crosby's direction, and Crosby looks like he wants to knock that cigar out of Giroux's hand. Crosby looks like trash, his nails bitten to the quick and grey in his hair.

There  _ is  _ the matter of Crosby fucking trash, instead of  _ being  _ fucking trash. Crosby doesn't turn his head to look at Giroux, says, "You want to talk or get out of here, christ."

"Can't I enjoy my cigar? And the continuation of the Spectrum Hex?" That earns Giroux a glare from Crosby, some of that old fire back in fuckface's eyes. 

Crosby turns towards him, says, "Trust your frenchie ass to be superstitious, do you clutch your rosary beads every game?"

Giroux looks Crosby up and down, smirks, "I hear you never step on the red line."

The color rises in Crosby's face, and Giroux watches him clench all over. Giroux sees an opening, steps closer, "Of course, I saw that Blue blowing you."

Crosby's eyes flash dangerously, his teeth as sharp as his voice when he says, "And you were coming over for tea at two in the morning, because we're such close friends,  _ Claude _ ."

Giroux smirks, "Maybe I just wanted to give you some tips on how to get to the .500 mark," runs his thumb down the side of Crosby's neck, "show you what it takes to win, for a change."

Crosby knocks Giroux's hand off angrily, "Go fuck yourself with that cigar."

"Maybe you need to be fucked, you get so hungry for it when you don't get  _ this _ ," Giroux grabs the front of his pants. Crosby sneers and gropes at the front of Giroux's pants, pressing Giroux's own hand uncomfortably tight against his dick. Crosby licks his lips, slowly enough that Giroux can see the thin sheen of spit on them, and smirks.

"Go ahead and  _ try _ , shithead," Crosby says. Giroux smiles slow and hard, and thinks about wrecking Crosby until he sobs.

It's almost  _ strange  _ seeing fuckface in Giroux's own bedroom, but the slightly orange light makes Crosby look surprisingly good as he lies on Giroux's sheets. Giroux unbuckles his belt, and Crosby watches him under slitted eyelids, tracking each movement of Giroux's hands. Giroux feels like he's on display, so he looks back, as rude as he can manage.

Crosby's thighs still scream to be bitten and abused, and Giroux shoves his pants down and crawls on the bed, pressing his hands against Crosby's legs. Crosby's hard, leaking over his stomach, and Giroux presses the flat of his hand up against Crosby's balls. Crosby tosses his head back, spreads his legs more, and Giroux breathes  _ fuck _ .

Crosby grinds down against Giroux's palm, says, "Need time to get it up?" with a smirk spreading those lips of his. Giroux scowls, pushes against Crosby and bites those lips hard. Crosby squirms under his mouth and hand, and that makes Giroux harder, knowing that Crosby's so  _ easy  _ for him.

Giroux tugs at Crosby's necklace, says in French, "I could fuck that girly mouth of yours, choke you on my dick, or fuck that ass of yours, god, it's so tight. It's tight for me, you're a perfect screw, aren't you, you cocksucker?"

Crosby doesn't speak French, but he knows enough to figure out what Giroux's driving at, and Crosby arches against Giroux, grinding out, "Fuck me already."

Giroux smirks, pushes back Crosby's thighs and drags his mouth over Crosby's balls, sucking slowly on them, kissing hard against his taint, sucking on it until Crosby's moaning is loud and consant. By the time Giroux comes up for air, Crosby's scarred knuckles are white from gripping the sheets. Giroux smirks, drags his tongue infuriatingly close to Crosby's cock, dark red and wet, and Crosby snarls, "You never make it simple."

Giroux presses his fingers against Crosby's asshole, slides them just far enough to rest them against Crosby's prostate, and says, "Why bother?"

If anyone could look pissed off while being fingered, it's Sidney Crosby. Giroux's dick twitches hard, and Giroux thrusts his fingers in hard, once. Crosby arches, his legs almost trembling, and Giroux replaces his fingers with his dick.

Crosby lets out a throaty moan, his red lips in an  _ O _ , and Giroux has to press a hand against that broad throat, hold it there as he fucks up into Crosby's ass. Crosby presses back, sucks at Giroux's fingertips whenever he can, almost  _ sweet _ . Giroux slams his hips harder, wanting to unravel Crosby, leave him weeping and moaning like the bitch he is.

Crosby's hot around Giroux's dick, and the look of reckless frustration on Crosby's face is enough to push Giroux over, to make him grip Crosby's hips and thrust rapidly against him until he comes, sliding wet into Crosby's ass.

Crosby pushes back, his ass clenching around Giroux's cock, thrusting up into air until Giroux jerks him off, flicks his thumb just right, and Crosby  _ whines _ . Crosby presses down against Giroux's spent dick, making Giroux bite his lip in pain, and he comes so hard Giroux finds himself jealous.

Giroux slowly eases out— fuck, he's going to  _ chafe _ —  and pushes his come back into Crosby's ass with his fingertips. Crosby's so loud, and god, Giroux wants to turn him over and fuck him senseless  _ again _ . Giroux's throat is dry, his fingers are wet, and Crosby's pressing back like he gets pleasure out of being fucked like this.

Who knows, he even actually does. Giroux pulls at Crosby's hair with his other hand, says, "Ta plotte est fait por moi," slowly for Crosby's benefit.

Crosby's spine stiffens against Giroux, and Giroux smirks. Slides another finger in and says, "J'avais raison."

Crosby doesn't say anything after that, just slides out of the bed and puts his clothes back on. He doesn't look at Giroux until he's almost out the door, and then locks eyes with him.

"It takes a cunt to know another cunt," Crosby responds, with a clear edge in his voice, "Wouldn't you agree, Giroux?"

Giroux smiles and closes the door on him.

 

#

 

_ 20 February  _ _ 1974 _

Crosby slams his hands on the glass, shouts, "Yeah, you fucked up, you know what you did, you fuck," and Durbano just tugs on his Blues sweater, missing more teeth than usual.

Durbano shouts, exposing that black hole he calls his mouth, "Fuck, I don't slap the dick out of your mouth while you're working, don't tell me what to do, you cocksucker."

Weber gives Durbano a low-five and winks at Crosby at the same time. Crosby snarls, and puts his fists on his hips as he turns to order a line change. He can still hear them snickering, stinging at his ears like the busy bees they are.

The end of the game— a tie, for fuckssake— makes Crosby's blood boil, and when he sees Weber leaning against the entrance to the visitors' locker room, Crosby wants to throw Weber down and fuck that smirk off his face.

Weber looks at him under hooded eyelids, like he knows what's going through Crosby's head and it  _ appeals  _ to him. Crosby bites down on his own lip in irritation, and shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks past Weber. Weber follows, and Crosby can feel his eyes molesting him everywhere, from the back of his neck to his own ass.

Crosby ducks into the small equipment room, mentally cringing at the brown ceiling tiles and the deep musty smell. Weber closes the door behind him, and presses himself against Crosby, saying, "Tough game."

Crosby sneers, and Weber presses his finger to Crosby's lips, dragging his rough fingertip over the bow of them, and he just says, "Your mouth."

Weber presses down on Crosby's lips, licking his own before he says, "You know what people say about lips like yours," and Crosby gropes Weber's firm ass. 

Crosby raises an eyebrow, says, "Nothing I haven't heard before. Or felt before."

Weber's jaw clenches, and his eyes get gratifyingly harder, like obsidian. Weber thumbs open Crosby's mouth, says, "You've had a lot of practice, then? Sucking off that fuckface Giroux? Do you let him come in your mouth, or does he come on your whore face?"

"Why don't you fuck my mouth, and find out, babe?" Crosby retorts, scraping the front of his teeth against Weber's fingers.

Weber leans in, and Crosby only smells the cheap aftershave Weber favors, the slightly stale sweat underneath it, and smiles. Crosby locks eyes with him, feels a shiver of excitement spark up his spine, and his hands twitch to press Weber against the rickety metal rack and unzip those atrocious red pants.

Weber scrapes his lips over Crosby's mouth, his beard leaving faint burns, and Weber pushes him up against the closet door and kisses him. It's mean, it's cruel, and it makes Crosby sweat, rake his hand through the mess of Weber's hair, and he moans into the kiss. Weber's mouth is unforgiving, his teeth digging in against Crosby's lip until Crosby can feel his lip throb in time to his dick. Weber curls his hand into Crosby's shirt, says, "You'd look better sucking me off,  _ Sidney _ ."

Crosby stiffens. He's never heard Weber call him by his personal name; it seems even more wrong than him calling Crosby  _ Coach _ , and Crosby wants to reach over, yank it out of his mouth.

Weber grips his chin and smiles at Crosby, croons, "C'mon, sweet, I know you can suck dick."

Crosby slowly gets to his knees, and yanks open Weber's pants, pushes his fingers through Weber's bush. Weber's slick, and Crosby leans in, drags his lips along Weber's foreskin, teases at it with his tongue. Weber shoves his hands through Crosby's hair, leaving curls in the wake of his fingers, and bucks up against Crosby's lips.

Crosby growls, tries to press Weber back, but he can't budge Weber at all.

Crosby clenches his thighs together, tries to ignore the spike of heat in his guts, and wishes the closet wasn't too dim for him to see Weber's eyes.

Weber strokes his hand down Crosby's cheek, presses down just a little as he says, "Fuck." His tone sounds like  _ begging _ , and Crosby wants to hurt him, scrape his nails over his skin. Instead Crosby slides Weber's dick into his mouth, presses the tip against his hard palate and sucks. Weber squirms, and Crosby slaps Weber's thighs hard.

Weber makes a wounded noise, and Crosby hums to himself, darting his tongue along the thin skin, thinking about Weber getting fucked by him, thinking about whether Weber could even bruise.

Weber's a mess, his hands sliding over Crosby's hair, his hips trying to press Crosby back against the door, but Crosby keeps sucking, sliding only halfway up Weber's dick, because  _ jesus christ _ he's big. Crosby's lips ache, and he reaches up, strokes the base of Weber's dick, and laps at Weber's pre-come.

Weber leans his head against the door, thrusts weakly into Crosby's mouth, letting out a slow stream of  _ ahh ahh _ _ ah  _ between Crosby and the cheap wood. Crosby presses his lips tighter together, strokes Weber off faster, and Weber comes, his nails scraping against the door.

Weber's come is thick, almost too much, on Crosby's tongue, and he gets up to his feet clumsily, tries to get his balance—

Weber presses him against the door with a dull  _ thunk _ , grips his jaw. Crosby winces at the creak of his jaw along an old break, but doesn't say anything. Weber kisses him, soft and deep, and Crosby realizes with a moan that Weber is trying to taste himself in his mouth. Crosby slides his tongue along Weber's, feeling hot and wet, his pants too tight against his dick.

Weber whispers against Crosby's lips, "Fuck, so hot, your mouth is perfect," as he reaches down and pushes his hand in Crosby's pants. Weber doesn't move his hand much,  _ can't _ , because he didn't unzip Crosby's pants, didn't undo Crosby's belt.

It only takes a few thrusts for Crosby to come hard in Weber's hand, his come sticking to Weber's hand and to himself, and Weber presses his palm against Crosby's spent dick. Weber smooths his free hand over Crosby's neck, presses against a tendon, says, "When do we play again."

Crosby's come-dumb, has to take a few beats to blink the stars out of his eyes before he can flip through his mental calendar and come up with, "30th of March."

Weber slides his hands down Crosby's shirt, getting come on them, the bastard, and smirks, "The 30th of March, then." Weber zips up and walks out, his hair looking like  _ he  _ was the one who gave a blowjob.

It takes Crosby longer to gather himself.

 

#

 

_ 14 March 1974 _

The Blues are a rat-fucking nest of cement-heads— and that's saying something, considering Giroux's boys. The Spectrum's howling for blood,  _ anything  _ to break the Blues thug squad taking liberties with the Flyers.

Giroux nods to Schultz, and Schultz plops on the ice, skating with his ankles bending inwards towards the Giroux  _ on the Blues _ . Schultz has a word with Blues-Giroux, who has to crane his neck up at Schultz, and Giroux can see him getting madder, turning red underneath that bushy mustache.

Giroux smirks, and nods at Van Impe to go and… assist Schultz. Which he does, skating up and spraying half of the Blues bench with snow. One of the Blues, Gassoff, snarls back at Van Impe from a metal folding chair that's been put at the end of the slightly-too short bench.

Van Impe reaches over and Gassoff beats him to the— heh— punch by buffering him on the side of his head. Clarke snarls and hacks at Gassoff's arm—

Both of the Flyers and the Blues benches empty out on the ice, and it's a blur of men punching each other and blood splashing on the ice. Giroux folds his arms, looks on the scene as impassively as he can manage, but he's fucking jumping up and down inside. The coach for the Blues, Talbot, doesn't seem as happy as Giroux is to see a rumble inside the Spectrum.

The fans are loving it, stomping their feet hard enough that the air reverberates, and toasting themselves with rapidly-emptying beer cans. Giroux bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, looking at the scoreboard and the clock. Everything's in favor of the Flyers, Giroux knows it.

Number Eight for the Blues— Giroux thinks it's Weber, no,  _ knows  _ it's Weber, how can he not when he caught him sucking off Crosby?— skates up to  _ his  _ bench and bares his teeth. Not terribly intimidating; for such a large man Weber has small teeth.

_ All the better to suck cock _ , Giroux smirks to himself.

"Call your dobermans off, Giroux," Weber says, curling a gloved hand around the edge of the boards, "We have a fucking game to play."

Giroux folds his arms, says, "What are you implying?"

Weber's eyes flash, and Giroux measures him up; Weber has to have at least forty pounds on Giroux and a hell of a reach. If Weber went in for a punch Giroux's remaining teeth wouldn't stand a chance.

But  _ then  _ Weber's skull wouldn't stand a chance. Giroux's boys are quick to offense.

It's an impasse then, an impasse which Giroux breaks by squirting water into his face. Weber snarls and  _ jumps  _ the boards, his skates landing heavily on the plywood and his gloves flying over the glass. Weber lifts Giroux up by his jacket, and Giroux feels the seams around his shoulders give way just like Giroux feels the angry buzz of fans behind the glass.

A man wearing the Flying P scrambles over the glass and blindsides Weber with a clout to his lantern jaw. Weber works his jaw, shaking off the numbness of the hit, and turns to the man with a smile on his face.

Giroux lands hard on his ass, scrambling for a spare stick to spear the fucking whale with—

Weber's punching the man in the stomach, right where the orange dot is, and he doubles over. Weber pushes him back against the glass and Giroux darts the blade of the stick right in his armpit.

Weber twitches and snaps the stick blade in between his arm and his torso, and Giroux yanks it back, looking at it bewilderingly. Clarke launches himself off the ice and against Weber, gets him with a hand over his eyebrow, and Weber slams him against the glass before the linesmen slowly skate over with their whistles clutched in their hands. Weber looks, raises his hand in mock surrender, and says, "Game misconduct, eh?"

The ref nods, and Weber flashes Giroux a nasty smile, a thin river of blood running down his face, pooling around the small divots in his skin, but he hops over the boards and gets off the ice.

Giroux brushes himself off, looks with disgust at a small circle of blood on his dull brown suit and shrugs. His suit is the color of dried blood, anyways.

The Flyers win, four to two, despite Giroux being able to play only four men on the ice thanks to the mismash of game misconducts and penalty box visits, and the Blues are glum as fuck when the clock blares zero. Giroux smooths his hair back. His heart's still pounding in between his ears, thinking about Weber pressing him up against the glass.

After that cuntfuck of a game, Giroux's at the bar, ignoring the hum and chatter of people trying to get his attention. He looks at his bourbon, swirls it, and then slams it back. The burn's better than most things he feels these days.

Giroux blinks, squints. If he didn't know better, if the light wasn't so dim, he'd swear it was Weber. When someone slams Giroux up against a hard surface, Giroux damn well memorizes that face. The man winces and rubs at the side of his face, showing raw and half-pulped knuckles; it  _ has  _ to be Weber.

What Weber's doing here, Giroux doesn't want to know.

Too bad Weber's noticed him. Giroux refuses to move. This is his city. And this is his seat. Weber sits down next to Giroux, and Giroux stiffens his spine. Weber smooths his large hands over the tabletop, says, "Why."

Giroux grinds his teeth, "Said the man who decided to jump a  _ coach _ ."

The corners of Weber's mouth pull upwards as he says, "You're not as dumb as you look, Giroux, you know what I'm talking about."

Giroux looks down at Weber's large hands, the acid in his stomach churning, and looks up at Weber's flat eyes, his voice almost steady, "You mean the time I saw you sucking off Crosby? Did you enjoy it,  _ Shelia _ ?"

Weber's hands press down on the table harder, making the ends of his fingers white, and Weber says slowly, "Two in the morning, and— heh. Everyone and their mother knows how much you and Crosby love each other— so deeply and warmly. Wedding bells?"

Giroux flushes: deep, quick, and hard, and he says, "Fuck off."

Weber edges closer. From this close Giroux can see Weber's misaligned bottom teeth, overlapping and yellowing at the roots. Giroux looks up from Weber's smile to his eyes, and makes himself stay still. Weber and Giroux stare at each other, neither of them wanting to move.

"Either you're finished or you're not, Weber," Giroux says.

Weber clutches at Giroux's wrist just so, and Giroux clenches his teeth at the grind of bone on bone, and Weber says, "Back. Off."

Giroux yanks his hand back from Weber's grip, snarls, "Tell your wife the same—"

Giroux doesn't get to finish, not with Weber squeezing his jaw shut and making Giroux bite his tongue painfully. Weber shoves Giroux towards the dingy restroom, with a cracked mirror and light so dim they might as well not bother to keep it on.

Weber says, "I don't like to repeat myself."

Giroux smirks, feeling dangerous and reckless, "So protective of that cocksucker, aren't you? He's a dirty son of a bitch, meant for you. Almost adorable if it wasn't—"

Weber slams him against the off-pink tile, says, "Keep running your mouth, Giroux, and I'll knock out all of your teeth."

Giroux rests his sore tongue behind his front teeth, and opens his mouth again, "Is this how you seduce him? Suppose it works since he likes it rough—"

Weber turns Giroux around and slams his cheek against the tile. This shit's getting old. Besides, it  _ hurts _ .

Weber leans in, his beard brushing Giroux's ear, "Touch him and I won't be so nice."

Weber pushes Giroux away, and storms out of the restroom, disgust stiffening his spine.  _ Nice _ ? Giroux rubs his cheek, cracks his jaw, and shoves his hair back into place. If that's nice, Giroux would  _ really  _ hate to catch Weber on a bad day.

 

#

 

_ 30  _ _ March  _ _ 1974 _

Weber's right there when Crosby gets out, his heavy eyes making Crosby's guts twist oddly. Crosby licks his lips, and presses his hand against his pants leg to avoid pressing it against the old bruises Weber has scattered along the side of his face. Crosby shouldn't be  _ this  _ uncomfortable, the Pens beat the Blues in their own barn, and they're getting the hell out of St. Louis in a few hours.

They stare at each other until Weber breaks the disjointed silence with an edged smirk, "You're usually smug as hell when you win."

That earns Weber a glare, and Crosby mutters, "No point, since we're not making the playoffs." Weber hums; the Blues aren't doing so hot either. Weber licks his lips, lowers his eyes, and Crosby reaches up and strokes his throat.

Weber freezes, and Crosby lets himself think about biting Weber's throat as he fucks into him. Weber would love it, Crosby  _ knows _ . Weber presses against Crosby's hand slowly, and Crosby's dick stiffens at the look in Weber's eyes, like Weber would let him do  _ anything _ .

Weber slides his hand down Crosby's arm, manages, "My place?"

Crosby doesn't trust himself to say more than, "Yes," and to follow Weber out to that hunk of metal he calls a car. Crosby slides in the front seat, and Weber spares Crosby's thighs a glance before he turns over the ignition with a sharp  _ click _ . The drive isn't long, and Crosby scrapes his palms down the slick material of his pants before he gets out to follow Weber's broad back. Weber has to bend his neck a little as he gets into the front door, and Crosby stares at the strip of skin between his wide collar and the curls of his hair.

Crosby really wants to press his hand against the back of that neck, to hold Weber down as he fucks that ass. Weber must be tight, probably clench around Crosby—

Weber turns around, smirks at Crosby like he knows how Crosby's been thinking about how he bends over, how he'd take Crosby's dick. Weber unbuttons his shirt, yanks his shirt tails out of his belted pants, and just  _ leans  _ against the back of the chesterfield. Crosby takes in Weber's thick torso, the tight nipples, and licks his lips hungrily.

Weber strokes the front of his pants, showing off his hard-on, and Crosby steps closer, slides his lips along the base of Weber's neck. Weber twitches, gasps, and Crosby says against the salty skin, "You like that, Shea?"

Weber makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut, throws back his head just a little. Crosby rakes his short nails down the sides of Weber's chest, and Weber presses his hard-on against Crosby's hip, spreads his legs. Crosby presses back, and Weber grits his teeth when he moans, trying so hard not to beg.

Crosby smiles. Weber looks wrecked, and they're not even naked. Weber grips Crosby's arms, says, "Get it over with."

Crosby reaches out, thumbs Weber's lower lip hard enough he can see a sliver of the inside of his mouth, says, "Maybe I want to make you hot for—" Crosby grinds against Weber's strong thigh, " _ this _ ."

Weber blinks, and says against Crosby's thumb, "Fucksake, just fuck me."

Crosby curls his hand around Weber's hip, squeezes before he slides it over to the front of Weber's pants and presses his palm against the zipper, using it a little meanly against Weber's dick. Weber's heels slide slightly on the avocado shag carpet, trying to get his balance back, and Crosby yanks the belt buckle open, lets the heavy metal hit Weber in the meat of his thigh. Crosby unbuttons Weber's pants, runs his fingertips along the edges of Weber's pubic hair.

Weber's hands are curled so tight around the back of the chesterfield his knuckles are white, and Crosby leans in, presses his fingers lightly against the base of Weber's dick, says, "Do you want to get off before I fuck you?"

Weber arches like a live wire's been touched to him, and digs his teeth into his lip before he says, "Just fuck me," sliding his dick up into Crosby's hand, looking like he could scream from them being so fucking close. Crosby really likes the desperation, the need in Weber's eyes, wants to see it when he slides his dick into Weber.

Weber lifts his hips, and Crosby pushes down Weber's pants, taking in Weber's dick, slick and red, and licks his lips. Crosby notices a thin glint of lube at Weber's cleft, and inhales sharply. The fucker  _ planned  _ for this, probably thought about this. Crosby slides his hand up Weber's thigh, resting damnably close to Weber's balls, says, "I could just push into you, couldn't I? Did you open yourself up like a good boy?"

Weber whines, something that could be a  _ yes _ , high in his throat, and scrambles his hands to unzip Crosby's pants, to pull Crosby's dick out. Crosby thrusts just a little in Weber's hands, pressing his own to the rise of red on Weber's neck, trying not to come like a dumb kid at the thought of Weber fucking himself hard.

Crosby rubs the head of his dick along the tight closeness of Weber's asshole, watching Weber sweat as he tries not to push back, tries not to be such a slut.  _ Too late _ , Crosby smirks.

Crosby pushes in, hard and tight, just as Weber pushes back, the burn of being fucked clear in the tense line of his jaw. Crosby slides his hand along Weber's chin, mutters some meaningless things, and Weber's ass almost loosens around his dick. Crosby thrusts in slowly, almost feeling his way through, and Weber twitches just perfectly when Crosby slides all the way in. Weber's still hard, wet and dripping against his belly, and god if that doesn't make Crosby  _ want  _ to slam in, to fuck him raw until Weber cries.

Crosby doesn't, makes Weber says that he wants Crosby to fuck him, which Weber does with a hard glare that makes Crosby's heart go into double-time. Crosby grips Weber's hips, thrusts up into him so hard he can feel Weber's thighs shake. Weber presses his hand against the back of Crosby's neck, shoves his fingers up through Crosby's hair, and Crosby has to press his hands down against Weber's shoulders as he moves his hips faster.

"Sid—" Weber mutters, clenching down on Crosby's dick, and Crosby reaches down, strokes Weber off hard, slicks his hand with Weber's precome as he tries to bite Weber's soft  _ ah aahh _ s off his lips. Weber bites Crosby's lip just hard enough to draw blood, and it's Crosby's turn to whine as Weber comes so hard he presses down against Crosby's dick, slides down viciously a few times, and that's it—

Crosby comes, blood in his mouth, and Weber's name on his lips. Weber pushes himself up awkwardly, slides his lips across Crosby, and Crosby kisses back, shoves his hands clumsily into Weber's hair. Weber's mouth is softer than it looks, and Crosby can't breathe. Crosby slides out of Weber's ass, leaking come all over the back of the chesterfield, and Weber rubs his thumb along Crosby's cut lip. Crosby sucks at Weber's thumb, and smiles when Weber looks at his lips with intent.

Weber looks filthy. Crosby  _ feels  _ filthy.

But fuck if Crosby doesn't want to put that look on Weber's face again.

 

#

 

_ 6 April 1974 _

Giroux looks up at the scoreboard listlessly. It's six to one, in the flightless fuckers' favor, and he can almost taste the waves of smugness Crosby is sending across from his bench.

Giroux grits his teeth, fuck him, the Penguins are finishing next-to-last in their division. Most of Giroux's boys have taken tonight off, not that he can blame them, but it still  _ stings _ . Giroux wanted to crush them, to make Crosby snarl at him.

The Igloo's quiet, like they know this is meaningless, that the Penguins are so bad that not even one good game's going to erase the indignity of having the Flyers finish first in the West Division. Giroux stands outside the Penguins' locker room, in full view of everyone else. He ignores the strange looks the Pens shoot him when they pour out of the too-small doorway, and steps into the room.

Crosby, slumped on a folding chair, jerks his head up. Giroux walks closer, making sure to step on the angry bird draped on the floor for old-time-sakes, and smirks at the flare of anger in Crosby's eyes. Crosby doesn't say anything.

And this is usually the time at this point of their little  _ program  _ where Crosby snarls something stupid and Giroux proves his superiority by saying something smarter back. Crosby's fists rest on his thighs in full view of Giroux, and Giroux decides it's  _ his  _ turn to say something.

"Had a charming conversation with your boy toy a while back," Giroux says, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in his jacket. A muscle jumps in Crosby's jaw, oh that must be a  _ sore  _ point. 

Crosby doesn't say anything though, just tries to glare a hole through Giroux's head.

Giroux presses his point, "He said that he'd kill me if I touched you, or something along those lines. I don't speak caveman that well."

It must be killing Crosby to be silent. Crosby's talkative as hell when he's this pissed, and he gets pissed the minute Giroux start slagging on his boys— and Weber is his boy, isn't he, after a fashion?

Crosby breathes, in and out, and says slow and heavy, "I'm touched. Your point,  _ Claude _ ?"

Giroux grins wide enough to show his side gap, says, " _ Sidney _ , are you in love?"

Crosby turns all sorts of colors,  _ bleu blanc et rouge  _ like the Habs, and snarls, "Fuck off."

"Casse-toi," Giroux responds automatically, trying to figure out what this means, trying to jam this tidbit in what he knows about the fuckface. Crosby's eyes are sliding back and forth, doing that little dance that means he's thinking just as hard as Giroux.

They don't say anything. Crosby gets up to his feet and crosses his arms, wrinkling his slightly-too-small mustard jacket, and Giroux shoves his hands into his pants pocket, playing with a quarter in his right pocket.

Giroux— and he hates it— cracks first, "Keep your mouth to yourself."

Crosby smiles, sharp as a scythe, "I've never had that problem," and Giroux flashes back on all the bites and claws they've given each other and snorts.

Crosby steps closer, making sure to step  _ around  _ the angry penguin on the floor, and says, " Get the hell out of my town."

Giroux rolls his eyes, trust fuckface to be into theater, but he turns his back on Crosby and walks out. He can feel an itch in between his shoulder blades when he rejoins his boys on the team bus, and  _ refuses  _ to turn back to look at the Igloo. 

Giroux has Lord Stanley's cup to get.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)!


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